Chapter Text
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In theory, he would be in and out of the venue without a hitch. He would walk in through the back entrance, warm up on his flute, walk calmly to the stage, perform, then leave. In theory, he would not arrive five minutes late, wouldn’t struggle to man-handle his gear towards the cluttered tables backstage, and would absolutely not trip over himself in a clumsy display of juvenile acrobatics. He would not fall flat on the floor, nor would he fling his arm up to balance his blessedly unharmed flute case on his outstretched palm. He definitely would not outwardly curse the heavens for his inordinately long legs and blush fiercely from the piercing attention he’s garnered in all the thirty seconds he’s been in the building.
Unfortunately for Wei Wuxian, theory is not reality.
Picking up his shattered dignity with every ounce of decorum he’s held through his twenty-four years of life, Wei Wuxian hefts himself up with a cheery laugh and exclaims, “Who put the floor here?!”
Conciliatory chuckles ring out amongst the watchful eyes and the cacophony of tuning and scales starts up once again.
Normally, Wei Wuxian delights at attention. He feeds from it, coaxing laughter out of other people with the confidence of a practiced hand. But tonight was never going to be normal. As he unpacks his flute, his mind runs through all the scenarios he pictured during the drive over. The hope that he would float in and out of the night like a graceful apparition, nonchalant and unaffected. It was a long-shot, he’ll admit, but still he hopes with a fierce determination that the night will yield no other surprises.
He knows who is here after all.
He refuses to acknowledge him, even in his mind. He tamps down on the sudden surge of emotions lancing through his chest and focuses on slotting the mechanisms of his practice stand into place.
Wei Wuxian knows that if he lets himself think about golden eyes and calloused fingers and sandalwood for even one moment - he will not make it through.
And he needs tonight to go well.
So, like all things that Wei Wuxian decidedly does not think about, he shoves it back into the furthest corner of his mind.
He picks up his flute and runs through his warm-up routine and does not feel the hairs on his nape rise. He does not acknowledge the weight of a gaze on his back. He does not turn his head and search for a face, so lovely and impassive, that could destroy him and bleed him with one glance.
He breathes evenly. Tonight will go well.
...
Wei Wuxian, as a freelance musician, works tirelessly. Or rather, he works beyond the scope of being tired. The price of doing what you love and something about not working and other such jazz. Wei Wuxian has worked many odd hours and many odd gigs. He built his resume on street credit alone. He knew college was a bust when Aunt Yu kicked him out of the house with a suitcase and a select amount of parting words he wouldn’t repeat in good company.
So when Gusu Symphony Orchestra offered him a job subbing as Principal Flutist for a concert series, he absolutely could not refuse. No matter that he first auditioned with the intention of being near a certain someone he no longer allowed himself to care about. Feelings and personal declarations about setting boundaries and healing were great if you didn’t have to pay rent.
So here he is, back in Gusu, running through a few passages of Tchaikovsky’s 5th Symphony, and decidedly not thinking about anything at all.
He feels someone slide up next to him. For a second he stutters and the breath that was meant to transform into a note, strangles and dies before it has the chance. He lowers his flute and visibly sags when he’s greeted with a familiar visage of a shorter man dressed in an embroidered suit.
“You better not play like that out there,” the man jaunts. Nie Huaisang is as flippant as ever. Wei Wuxian hopes that whatever expression his face is making currently masks the bone-deep relief he feels flood through him.
“Hey, are you alright?” His hopes are in vain apparently.
Wei Wuxian schools his expression into a teasing smirk and throws back, “it’s not every day you suddenly trip and fall into one of the most prestigious orchestras in the country, i’m lucky they didn’t throw me out on principle.”
Nie Huaisang laughs, “Only you could pull that off and have enough face to play a concert.”
Wei Wuxian draws his features in mock offense. “Tonight we honor the Romantic Period’s very own gay disaster and you speak to me of having face.” He tuts for good measure.
Huaisang snorts, “Ah, touché. Though Tchaikovsky was Russia’s national treasure.” He casts a pointed glance at the wrinkles of Wei Wuxian’s black slacks.
Resisting the urge to pull at the shorter man’s ponytail, Wei Wuxian simply shrugs and returns to his flute.
Moments later, Huaisang clears his throat and leans into his space. Wei Wuxian, having decided to do his level best to ignore his meddlesome friend, believes he puts forth a valiant effort in this pursuit before Huaisang says, “Did you do something to piss off the first Cello Chair? He hasn’t taken his eyes off you in awhile.”
Wei Wuxian freezes. He does not flinch. He does not scream. He does not look. He resists the urge to flee straight through the backstage door and forces himself to stay calm.
Huaisang doesn’t know, he tells himself. Nobody does, and nobody will.
With the training of years spent in the unyielding presence of Madam Yu, Wei Wuxian plasters a good-natured smile on his face, turns to Huaisang, and says “I’ve barely been here ten minutes, what could I have possibly done? Now stop distracting me, or I’ll dent your oboe.” He goes to flick Huaisang on the side of the head.
With a squawk and a glare, Huaisang dodges the blow and turns around to walk to his own gear. Wei Wuxian’s chuckles as his eyes follow Huaisang’s progress across the floor and-
Oh no.
looking was a mistake, the worst actual thing he has ever done in his life, because he’s now able to see a familiar tall figure and his heart beats too quickly and stops altogether and its been months and its been absolutely no time at all because golden eyes are swallowing him entirely and his organs have failed him and nothing is right because all those months he’s spent telling himself that he’s okay mean nothing and. And. And.
And suddenly there’s a sonorous ding signaling musicians to file out to the stage.
And Wei Wuxian has to figure out how exactly he is going to survive the night.
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